Jiyeong stepped out of the house for the first time in ages.
“When was the last time I saw sunlight?”
After returning to Korea and becoming enchanted by Yeonwoo, she’d been cooped up at home daily—making this outing her first proper escape in weeks.
By nature, she was anything but a homebody—the living embodiment of an extrovert.
Without Yeonwoo, she’d have been out drinking with friends or colleagues until sunrise long ago.
“But how could I ever leave our Yeonwoo behind?”
Yeonwoo, the incarnation of adorableness, was a joy to gaze at, to caress his hands or cheeks, and most of all, to cradle tightly in her arms.
All thanks to that warm, sweet baby scent.
Her recent return to Korea had been more therapeutic than her years in the U.S., where she’d gone for study and self-care among other things. Now, both her weary body and mind had fully recovered.
Time to get back to work.
She had to reenter the cutthroat music industry—armed with her beloved nephew’s song.
Her first meeting was with the only major agency that had reached out: a company once hailed as the nation’s top entertainment powerhouse.
Jiyeong often likened this company to Britain.
Like the British Empire—once the globe’s strongest nation where the sun never set—it had been eclipsed over time by rivals like the U.S., yet still clung to residual prestige. Taein Entertainment fit this description perfectly.
They maintained a decade-old idol group and had recently debuted a girl group touted as Korea’s finest, a bid to prove their enduring relevance. Rumor had it they were launching a new project—perhaps the reason for their interest in Yeonwoo’s song.
The meeting began with nervous anticipation.
The planner who greeted her was someone Jiyeong recognized immediately.
“Jung Youngdo. You know who I am, yes?”
“…Naturally. Is there anyone in this industry who doesn’t know Director Jung Youngdo? Hahaha.”
Her laugh masked a sinking heart.
It was unavoidable.
Jung Youngdo—a legend who’d once propelled Taein to unrivaled dominance.
The problem was when that legend had been made.
Now, or rather, since Jiyeong’s active years, he’d devolved into a relic—a traditionalist clinging to faded glory.
His repetitive concepts and assembly-line idols had helped dethrone Taein. He should have been ousted for innovation’s sake, yet here he stood as the company’s second-in-command—untouchable.
So why was he interested in Yeonwoo’s song?
It made no sense. This was a man obsessed with hook-driven tracks that peaked in popularity a decade ago.
“Before Alice departed, she showed keen interest in your song. Hence this meeting. Ah—though it’s not strictly yours, is it?”
“Correct. My collaborator prefers anonymity, so I submitted the song as their proxy.”
“Regardless. I gave it a listen—it’s decent.”
“I… see.”
“But the chorus lacks punch, don’t you think? The chord progression needs more addictive flair…”
Exactly what I dreaded. His feedback landed like clockwork.
He wanted to rearrange this song in a hook song style – something that perfectly suited his taste, what people would call a "Taein-style" track cobbled together through copy-paste methods.
"How about it? My idea?"
"Ah, well... Could I discuss this with the composer first before giving you an answer?"
"Of course. Make sure to convince them properly. It’ll be a massive hit if you follow my plan."
Jiyeong forced a smile.
Wait a second.
Alice left?
Alice belonged to that transitional 2.5-generation idol era between the second and third generations.
During her active years, she’d composed and produced all her group’s songs to great acclaim. After their disbandment, she cemented her reputation by creating ‘Nabilen,’ an idol who broke into the domestic top five even during Taein’s crisis period.
No wonder Jung Youngdo, who normally wouldn’t glance at such songs, showed interest. It seemed even he acknowledged Alice’s prowess in shaping Nabilen.
But where would she have gone? Jiyeong asked casually, feigning mild curiosity. "Director?"
"Yes?"
"Do we know where Alice went?"
"Hmm? Let me think... Ah, wasn’t it BSK?"
BSK.
How ironic – the very agency that had launched Jiyeong as a producer. Alice went there? The legendary Alice?
What reason would she have to join BSK? Plenty of major agencies would’ve courted her. And how did this genius producer – a former top-tier idol herself – even discover Yeonwoo’s music? Their worlds had no obvious overlap, yet this indirect connection through success prickled at Jiyeong’s curiosity.
She needed to visit BSK first, even if it meant rescheduling every other meeting. As Jiyeong left Taein, she glanced at her phone’s wallpaper – Yeonwoo smiling shyly in her arms.
"Hold on, Yeonwoo. Your aunt’s going to make this song sell big before coming back!"
Meanwhile, Yeonwoo played piano before his grandmother with complete devotion. His jazz had long shed strict adherence to swing, bebop, or cool genres, flowing instead through graceful keystrokes.
"Beautiful," Heo Ok murmured, her contented smile deepening. Though resembling her, her grandson’s playing retained an untainted purity that filled her with joy.
Yeonwoo beamed at her praise.
"But you mimic me too closely. What music would you play if not jazz?" she asked.
He tilted his head. Having learned by watching her play, he carried both her techniques and the inherited "musical fairy spirit" from her lineage. To him, his piano was simply an extension of hers.
Pointing at himself, then his grandmother, then the piano, he pantomimed his thoughts.
"Learning from me doesn’t make your piano mine," Heo Ok chided gently. "We’re alike, but you must find your own voice. Don’t your compositions already show this?"
Yeonwoo pondered her words before turning away. On the piano keys, tiny fairies watched him expectantly.
‘What is my piano?’
At Yeonwoo’s question, the fairies all rose from their seats and began warming up.
Their movements seemed to say, “Let’s try playing once,” so Yeonwoo straightened his posture and placed his hands on the piano keys.
The fairies cleared a path for him. As Yeonwoo listened to their music, he understood immediately.
This is my piano.
As if everything now made sense, Yeonwoo hushed the fairies and began to play, guided by their energy.
His piano blended his grandmother’s jazz with the pop music his aunt had taught him—a mix that felt like a children’s song tinged with youthful innocence, yet layered with jazz rhythms and the soul of mainstream music.
On paper, it sounded chaotic and disjointed, but the result was a surprising harmony that defied expectations.
Yeonwoo played with feverish intensity, as if channeling something beyond himself. When he finally stopped, the notes lingered in the air like a sigh.
This is it. The best.
He could confidently say it was his finest performance yet.
“How is it, Grandma?”
Yeonwoo turned to her, but his smile faded.
Heo-ok, who had been quietly listening, lay slumped in her chair, head drooping heavily.
“…Grandma?”
He approached and gently shook her.
In that instant, her body slid limply from the chair and collapsed.
“…!!”
Yeonwoo staggered back, scanning the room in panic.
His aunt, always home at this hour, was nowhere. His father, of course, was still at work.
What do I do? What do I do?
Grandma lay pale and still, her condition terrifyingly grave. Tears spilled down his cheeks before he even noticed them.
Then he spotted the smartphone beside her.
Children his age were observant—quick to mimic what they saw. He opened the contacts.
Dad… Dad…
He found the entry labeled Shin Ji-hoon and called.
Rrrrrrrrrrr…
“The subscriber cannot answer…”
No answer. He checked the time—3 p.m., when his father was always in meetings.
Yeonwoo typed a shaky message:
[Dad… It’s… Yeonwoo…]
After sending it, he scrolled up and dialed his aunt’s number. Still no response.
His gaze fell to the emergency call button at the bottom of the screen.
Yeah, I remember stumbling across it on YouTube Shorts.
Was it 119? The emergency number?
Yeonwoo, who had been isolated and was just starting to experience the world, didn’t know exactly what 119 did, but he knew this number could help him.
Yeonwoo dialed the number.
Yes, this is 119.
“……”
Yeonwoo felt despair.
He couldn’t speak.
Hello? This is 119. Please speak. Hello?
“……”
His chest tightened with anxiety.
Yeonwoo’s gaze shifted to his grandmother.
Above her, the memory of another person flashed in his mind—his mother, growing cold and lifeless before his eyes.
The painful memory of her losing her light as she looked at him shook Yeonwoo’s heart.
At only six years old, the trauma was too heavy to bear. Would another devastating wound scar him?
“…Ugh…”
A crack formed in the emotional wall he’d built in his heart, and it began to crumble.
Hello? Please speak!!
“G-Grandma… Grandma collapsed! Waaah!”
Yeonwoo burst into tears, screaming.
His voice—hoarse and fractured from years of silence—broke free as the wall collapsed, carrying his desperate resolve not to witness another loved one’s death.
“Grandma… save her, please!”
Understood. We’re dispatching help immediately! Do you know your address, sweetie?
“N-No, I don’t…”
We’ve located you. You’re at XX Apartments, correct? Which floor?
“First floor! Hurry, please!!”
Got it. We’re on our way. Stay with your grandma, okay?
“Y-Yes… sob…”
After hanging up, Yeonwoo cried out for his grandmother, tears streaming down his face.
Ironically, tiny blue fairies began to emerge from Yeonwoo’s voice—small, delicate creatures he’d never seen before, each bearing a striking resemblance to him.
